


With, Not Without You

by TheBoredWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Gen, Hallucinations, Loneliness, M/M, POV Third Person, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBoredWriter/pseuds/TheBoredWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that his blogger is moved out and expecting a child, Sherlock is finding out exactly how much he will always need John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Knife Drops

He was a ball of dull gold and blue huddled on the sofa, his gaze locked on the ceiling above.

 

Sea-glass eyes followed the path of the knife down. Whish-thunk-clatter.

 

"The ceiling, Sherlock? You know, Mrs. Hudson's going to be livid, yeah?"

  
"Mm. She won't notice. She never looks up." Marking down the time, Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed the knife off the coffee table, setting it aside. "Spey-blade; 18 minutes."

 

"Is this about that murder? The uh.. stabbing? Still trying to figure out who did it?"

 

Sherlock smirked. Popping off the sofa like a dog hearing the shake of his food in its bag, he traveled across the room into the kitchen.

 

"Hungry? Bring me the biscuits, yeah? Those new ones Mrs. Hudson brought up. Oh, and I thought we talked about heads and other various body-parts in the fridge. Keep them covered if you're going to keep them in there at all."

 

"Forgot." Like a top chef pulling out his master cuisine, Sherlock pulled out the head from the refrigerator, silver platter and all. Though, to be fair, that platter was more of a tray from the morgue. Stainless steel. But the imagery carried that Biblical feel. Lovely. On his way back to the sitting room, Sherlock picked up the biscuits. "Here," placing them on the small table beside the chairs, Sherlock returned to his spot on the sofa, perching like a bird of prey as he carefully set the head down on the coffee table. A bit to the left... A bit to the right.. Meticulously, he angled the head, his own brown hair bouncing as he looked up at the ceiling and back down, turning the the merest of centimeters. "Ahh..." There was his field mouse in the distance, now only to prepare his talons..

 

"Did you just say 'talons'? What are..? Ohh... Don't tell me you think..? Really? You think he killed himself, don't you? You realize, that the probability of that actually happ--"

  
"Yes, I know." Sherlock grabbed up he knife and, after a few practice near-tosses, he launched the knife up into the ceiling.

Five minutes went by, filled with the silent munching of biscuits, which was not unenjoyable."You know if you're right about this... Why do I say "if" actually, you are right, aren't you? I can't wait to see the look on the Greg's face. Or on that other, new inspector. He was  _so_ sure this was a murder. And with the suspects he's pulled in? I mean, I'll feel a bit sorry for him, but.. This is fantastic."

Sherlock hid the smile that threatened to grow on his lips, his eyes locked on the ceiling, though he very much wanted to look down at his friend.

 Ten minutes passed with the anticipation of verification, and warm, pleasant company. The room smelled like cold flesh and cinnamon. Mostly cinnamon, which was nice. "Why does time always seem so slow when you're waiting for something? Ha. 'Watched pot never boils' or so the saying goes." 

 

"Or in this case, 'A watched six-inch spey-blade knife never falls into the severed head of a one Mr. Cartwright'" His lips curled up on one side, pleased at his own humour. The snort he was met with makes him even more so. 

 

Eighteen minutes pass and now all the attention in the room is on the knife in the ceiling. The room is pregnant with the hush of anticipation, and it's a silent thing when the killing instrument falls. Handle over blade, it tumbles through the air only to slide, sword-in-sheath, into the skull of the decapitated head below.

 

"Brilliant" 

 

Sherlock grinned as he stood, his eyes searching out to savor the pleased look of astonishment and awe on John's face. 

 

Only the room was empty. The biscuits untouched. 

 

"Amazing, Sherlock..." but the words are now hollow with old memory and change. 

 

The knife had dropped along with the penny. 

 


	2. He, the Music.

A cry woke Sherlock from the light sleep he'd fallen into on the sofa of 221B. John. Rolling from the sofa, Sherlock stumbled up to stand, and he reached for his violin. The captain was often pliable to being soothed with music during one of his nightmares. It was as he was bringing the instrument to his shoulder that the stagnant mist of sleep evaporated from his mind, and he was left blinking, remembering his isolated state. 

Not there, not there.

His thoughts turned to gauge his own body's response. 

 

Elevated heart-rate.

Sweating.

Shortness of breath. 

Wet eyes.

 

"Ah..." Then it was... He spared a brief moment trying to recollect the dream that had woken him, but it was of no use, and he quickly disregarded it. The content was easily enough guessed as the dull phantom pains in his back and chest were proof enough. Nightmares were not foreign to him, but he was not used to suffering them. Only since his death (deaths?) had they begun to plague him, which wasn't surprising. Undergo a traumatic experience and receive nightmares. Reasonable. 

He stood in the middle of the sitting room like a lamppost in winter, wanting to walk--to move-- but thinking it would be a mistake to do so. The last thing he wanted was for Mrs. Hudson to run up with him a heap on the floor. 

He lifted his violin once more, seeing as that was movement without giving his knees a chance to buckle. His muscles were taut and disobedient, and the first notes he played quavered pitifully from the hollow wood. It was something, though. It was noise, it was sound, it was an old friend come to visit.

Again, he pulled his bow across the strings, the notes stronger and warmer than before as his fingers began to find their home on the board. Soon, he was playing a piece with a dulcet melody, simple and lilting. 

 

And now, the soft pad of feet coming down the stairs. The subtle scent of sweat, linen, and a ceramic mug. The creak of chair being sat in. A soft sigh. 

 

The sigh might've come from himself, Sherlock wasn't sure, but his muscles were relaxing and his heart-rate was slowing.  A pleasant feeling of contentedness settled in his stomach as he shut his eyes, barely registering the motions it took to press the strings. 

  

When he'd finally finished, he quickly set his violin down on the coffee table, attempting to outrun the silence to sleep. Like a child, Sherlock curled up on the sofa, and shut his eyes, imagining that the music was still there, blanketing him with the faint scent of tea and the sound of gentle breathing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. Sad. BUT it WILL get better. Eventually. I think. Ehe. Oops. Thanks for reading.


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